Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23153 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 77(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23153 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 77(@300wpm)
I glance down at myself one last time. I’m wearing my dark wash jeans that slim my hips and thighs while giving me a great bubble butt. The long-sleeved t-shirt I’m wearing is a soft, mossy green that perfectly matches my eyes. It also shows just a hint of cleavage. I paired the outfit with my favorite classic sneakers. Emmy told me that I look cute and flirty, which was the vibe I was going for.
As soon as I open the door, Brock is standing there. He holds up a copy of my latest book and glares at me. “We have to talk.”
5
ZOEY
“Don’t tell me the runaway bride chose her douchebag fiancé over the mountain man. He doesn’t even really love her and what he said about her in the beginning makes him a complete dickhead.” His voice drips with disdain for the fat-phobic man who couldn’t find it in himself to love a curvy woman.
I laugh, surprised that Brock is reading the book but not by his opinion. This book of mine always inspires strong opinions. “You’ll have to read it to find out.”
“She deserves better than that loser,” he grumps than pauses. His blue gaze softens. The normally hard glint is gone and in its place is something warm and tender. “You’re beautiful, by the way.”
The compliment makes my cheeks heat as I follow him out to the truck. Still, I can’t resist teasing him. “Compliments aren’t going to work. You’ve already struck out.”
He opens the passenger door to his Jeep for me. The confusion in his expression fades when he sees the amusement I can’t hide. “You’re telling me that I hit three strikes already?”
I nod at the book in his hand. “You dog-eared the pages. That’s definitely worth three strikes right there.”
He waits until he’s in the driver’s seat. He switches the heater on when I shiver. “Books are meant to be experienced and loved.”
“Exactly. They shouldn’t be tortured,” I answer as he navigates the road down the mountain. Somehow, I’m not surprised that he drives an all-terrain vehicle. It fits his rugged image.
“Come on. Bending the corner is no different than hitting the pause button on the remote when I’m watching TV,” he insists.
I don’t think we’re ever going to agree on this. Even though I like teasing him, I switch topics. “Is my book the first romance you’ve read?”
“I average a romance book or two a month. Whatever my sister insists is the latest must-read. Of course, your name got bumped up in the queue after she heard about this.”
I’m not surprised by the fact that he’s reading romance. Men make up almost a third of erotic book buyers and one out of every five romance authors is a man. It always makes me sad that men can’t openly celebrate their love for the genre without someone spewing some toxic masculinity.
He starts to say something else then stops himself.
“You can talk to me. I mean, I write in the genre. You’re probably not going to say something I haven’t heard before,” I offer.
Being a romance writer is sometimes like being a therapist. I’ve heard more about my readers’ sex lives, fantasies, and relationship problems than you can imagine. Perfect strangers open up to me when we’re separated by pixels. I love the faith they have in me, and I try to always be supportive and kind.
“I started reading romance books while working an ugly homicide investigation. I wanted something with a happy ending. You don’t usually see the ending in the work I do. You always wonder if that teenage runaway found his way home or if that woman who filed the restraining order got away from her abusive partner. If you do happen to see the ending, it’s usually the worst-case scenario.”
I’d never considered all the unanswered questions he must be left with in his line of work or the way that would weigh on his mind.
He clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable with everything he’s revealed. “It’s already making the rounds that you’re here in the little gossip mill of South Tahoe. My sister, Piper and her friend, Cleary are big fans of your books.”
“I’m not the only one. I’m here with my author friends Clover Thompson, Mina Chance, Paige Turner, Emerald Lee, and Cassia Murphy. We’re on a writing retreat this week,” I explain. I’m already looking forward to our group dinner tomorrow night.
“I recognize a couple of those names. Paige Turner, I have some of her books. She writes the best dirty talking medieval knights.”
“Yes, she does,” I agree with a laugh. It’s rare to find a man comfortable enough to discuss the fact that he reads about dirty talking medieval knights.
We continue our banter for the next hour, discussing which romance tropes we love and which ones we hate. We both agree that mountain men and cowboy romances are amazing. But neither of us care for an amnesia romance or a secret baby trope.